100 Years Project Anthology

away, and I have nobody to pass it onto.
“Mum!” I hear my daughter call. I shake my head and wonder why
my daughter seems only a ghost to me.
I keep calling but she doesn’t respond. “MUM!” I try again. Nothing.
I feel alone when she’s right there. Should I feel this way?
“Ellie? Sorry, love, I’m coming.” At least she heard me.
I hear my daughter’s calls but… I can’t move. I try to convince myself
I’m a good mother. My hand is drawn to my pocket. And as I’m
so used to, I slip out my pocket notebook and pen. Words flow.
I’m trying to protect
Yet seeming to defect
She’s too precious
To be chipped or broken
Or lost.
I don’t think she told me the truth. I don’t think she’s coming. I
push myself away from my paper-covered desk. I push myself away,
defeated by the blank page.
I was right to say the future was bitter. I see my words from 1990